


Fractions

by emungere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Self-Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25611582#t25611582">this prompt</a> on the Sherlock kink meme:</p><p> <i>Lestrade desperately wants to be held down. Tied up. Jacking off takes the edge off but still, he needs someone to pin him down, scratch him, flog him, stroke his dick till he's oversensitive and sobbing. But he's an old sort, he's not in the local "scene" and doesn't think in his public position he can afford to risk his image and career that way. So he relegates himself to porn and some creative self-bondage. But then he meets Sherlock's friend Dr. Watson. Who asks him out on a date, and courts him proper. They shag and it's lovely but... not quite scratching that itch. Sherlock deduces.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractions

Lestrade clicked the handcuffs closed around his wrists. The chain was threaded through the slats in his headboard. The keys were frozen in a shallow dish. It was close enough that, when the ice melted, he'd be able to free himself. For now, he was stuck. 

The vibrator in his arse was on low. He twisted and wriggled a bit, but the harness held it just so. It wouldn't matter how he moved (or later, thrashed); it would stay where it was, pressed up snug against his prostate and buzzing away. Its standard cycle was five minutes on low, ten on medium, twenty on high, and five on something the instruction booklet called "instant orgasm." 

The thing was programmable, but he'd never bothered to change it. Forty minutes was also roughly how long it would take the ice to melt. It worked out nicely. He occasionally felt he'd wasted the truly astonishing sum he'd paid for it by not doing more fiddling, but he didn't want that sort of control. He'd seen new ones online that had a random setting, and he was tempted. If he didn't know what was coming next, it would be almost as good as-- Well, no point in dwelling. 

It was getting harder to think anyhow. Sweat rose along his spine, at his temples and under his arms. His cock lay in a hard curve against his belly, and as the vibrations kicked up from low to medium, fluid started to leak from the tip. It dripped down, over the crown, stray drops down the shaft. All of it ended up, eventually, on his stomach, where it would stick and itch subtly, a reminder that he couldn't wipe it away, that he was helpless, bound and caught, if only by his own actions. 

He'd turned the clock away as he always did, but he could guess it was twenty minutes in when things got really _difficult_. The vibrator was on high now, no way to avoid it, no way to get more, no friction available for his aching cock. The clothespins he'd clipped onto his nipples tugged and burned every time he shifted even a little bit, and it was now impossible to keep still. 

He'd bound his legs at the knees and ankles so he couldn't even spread them for what little relief that might bring. No leverage, no freedom, no escape from the inevitable orgasm he could feel building inside him. No way to hasten or slow it. He bit his lip hard and rode it out. 

His balls tightened, and his cock jerked and pulsed, sending sticky white drops halfway up his chest. It'd taken so long to get there that he felt shaky and overheated in the aftermath, wanted nothing more than to curl on his side and sleep. Impossible with the vibrator still turned up high, still hard up against that spot inside him. 

Ten minutes, maybe, before it shifted gears again, and ten minutes was a long time. With his whole body over-sensitive, skin hot and flushed, heart pounding, cock straining painfully toward arousal again, it would seem like forever. That was the point; he'd set all this up to this end, and still he had to muffle his cries against his upper arm as the vibrations wound every muscle tighter. 

It was too much. It was supposed to be too much, but that didn't stop him trying to get away, twisting and turning uselessly in his bonds as his body screamed at him. Too much pleasure, intense and white-hot, and his cock was getting hard again. He wouldn't be able to come. It would just be this ache, this burn, this _need_ he couldn't fulfill, and as he did every time, he wished now he'd never started this. Why couldn't he have held off another week or two? Three. A month. He was screwed now, he was _fucked_ good and proper. 

He scrabbled for the keys, but they were still encased in ice. He pulled at the cuffs. No use, of course. All it got him was a dull ache in his wrists and incipient bruises that would mean he couldn't roll up his sleeves for a few days. He shifted on the bed, ground his arse into the mattress. 

Minutes ticked past. His cock _hurt_ , so sensitive he could hardly bear the contact where it lay against his stomach, and at the same time he was dying for enough slack to turn over and rub off against the sheets. His back and thighs ached. He couldn't take another second. 

And then the vibrator cranked up another gear. "Instant orgasm" was stronger, came in pulses, with a teasing half second of total shut off between them so that each felt stronger than the last. Lestrade's body jerked, and he begged silently for relief. There was no one to make him do it out loud. 

Five minutes later, the vibrator shut off entirely. Lestrade fell back gratefully against the bed, trembling, too spent even to grope for the key for at least another two or three minutes. 

He freed himself, showered, and fell into bed. It was almost enough. Aging police detectives did not pick up strangers in bars for kinky sex, period. That road had only one destination, better known as scandal and early retirement. So it would have to be enough. He slept like the dead. 

*

It was about eight months after John Watson moved in with Sherlock and started haunting Lestrade's crime scenes, a rainy Tuesday in September. Sherlock was crouched over the body of the moment, a man who had apparently drowned in the middle of his bed. 

"I know this isn't the best time and place," John said. 

"Sorry?" Lestrade forced his attention away from Sherlock. 

John had his hands in his pockets. He was looking straight ahead, possibly out the window, possibly at the dust molecules just in front of his nose. "Do you want to have dinner some time?" he said. 

Suddenly, ignoring Sherlock was quite easy. Lestrade stared down at John, whose casual stance was betrayed by the faint color in his cheeks. 

"Are you asking me out? On a _date?_ " 

"I think I am, yeah." 

Lestrade glanced around, but no one was paying them the least attention. Everyone had jobs to do. Sherlock was sniffing the victim's fingernails. All quite normal. 

Lestrade wanted to say any number of things. All of them started with _why_ , and none of them were questions he could ask without sounding like no one had asked him out for half a decade (which was, in fact, the case). 

"Sure," he said. "When?" 

"Tomorrow night, sevenish? I'll pick you up." 

"Need my address?" 

"No, Sherlock has it." 

And that was how he started dating John Watson. Easy. 

*

Third date: Dinner at a good Indian place that was new to Lestrade, and then a film of the sort with lots of explosions and very little plot. They stepped out laughing into damp, cool air, surrounded by the reflections of street lights in every puddle. It was carnival bright, and John kissed him on a street corner. They failed utterly to find a cab and walked back to Lestrade's flat, two miles interspersed with kisses and the rub of chilled noses on cheeks and the flutter of John's lashes on his skin. 

Lestrade knew he should take the initiative, take a few kisses and a little control, but this was perfect as it was. He'd do better back at the flat, behave properly, not drop to his knees like he very much wanted to and beg John to use him as he liked. In short, this was good, and he wouldn't ruin it. 

*

Seventh date: Spicy Thai food that Lestrade could taste in John's mouth when they kissed just outside the restaurant. John liked it hotter than Lestrade, and it burned, an alien tingle of heat as John licked into his mouth and bit lightly at his lower lip. 

Back to Lestrade's, then. They hadn't tried it at 221b for one obvious reason, whose name was Sherlock. 

"Do you think he knows?" Lestrade said on the taxi ride back. 

"Course he knows." Unconcerned, almost casual. 

Lestrade thought about his mobile, kept close during his little sessions in case of emergencies that wouldn't wait for melting ice. About the first number on his speed dial. He had always known exactly who he would call. Sherlock was simultaneously the worst possible and the only possible choice. Sherlock already knew him inside out, since thirty seconds after they met. The odds of him knowing Lestrade liked to be tied up and smacked around were extremely high. The odds of him bothering to tell anyone were reassuringly low. Not interesting enough. Lestrade, in general, was not interesting enough. 

Yes, of course he knew John and Lestrade were dating. Lestrade didn't know why he'd asked. 

*

By the eleventh date, Lestrade had almost relaxed enough to stop counting. It was working, this thing between them. They liked the same football team, they liked film noir, Tom Clancy novels, solving murders, and Sherlock Holmes. It was more than Lestrade had in common with his ex-wife, and they'd lasted almost ten years. 

John also had a taste for danger, a rough edge to him that made the skin of Lestrade's spine prickle when it showed. It did not often show in bed, but sometimes-- 

They'd got takeaway and ate it on the couch watching The Lady from Shanghai. It was a film Lestrade had splintered recollections of, dark water and rough, shadowed sex in deck chairs that he'd clearly been imagining, and funhouse mirrors at the end. John pushed him back, lay out on top of him. At the final gunshot, Lestrade tried to slide away to clear the dishes before they went to bed. 

John caught his wrists and pushed him back down. 

There was stillness while Lestrade struggled not to react in any of the thousand ways he wanted to. 

"Sorry," John said. "Sorry--" 

"No, don't--" 

It was a strange, taut moment. To Lestrade it felt like a bite of food he couldn't quite swallow down, or a thick cock in his throat. Something too much and not enough. He could, should say something here, let John know that it was not just welcome but craved. 

"It's fine," he said, and smiled. "No problem." 

*

Fog boiled up from the Thames. The lights along the Embankment rose up out of it one by one as Lestrade ran, each invisible but for a sickly glow until he was almost upon it. He didn't actually expect John and Sherlock to wait for him, despite his threats earlier in the day, and so he was not disappointed. 

He heard two shots ahead of him in the dark. The killer they were chasing used a garrote, and those didn't generally make a lot of noise. Even so, he felt his heart lurch as he picked up speed.

Sherlock's brand of drama no longer surprised him, and so when he skidded to a halt and took in the scene -- Sherlock tall and dark and inevitably backlit by a streetlight that turned his curls to a damp halo, their killer on the ground at right angles to him and apparently tied up with his own garrote -- he was ready to sigh and get on with arresting the bastard. 

Except. There was also John, one knee in the man's back, tightening the garrote around his wrists until the man whimpered. Gun pressed hard to the base of the man's skull. 

Lestrade had an unfortunate few seconds during which he could not for the life of him remember why John carrying a gun was supposed to be a bad thing or, in fact, why murder was such a terrible career path if it led one here. 

Sherlock was watching him. Right. Morals, the law, all that sort of thing. He took an even breath and said, "John, put that away before Donovan gets here." 

*

Lestrade had been sleeping with John for almost four months before he started eyeing up his freezer again. His spare set of handcuff keys lived in there, permanently encased in ice. Ready any time he was. 

He was well and truly ready after the last case. It was not a Sherlock case, just a brutal clubbing that ended with a dead child and a father hidden away in his mother's basement. The killer's mother had begged them not to take him away. Begged on her knees, wanted mercy for the man who murdered her grandson. 

When they took him away she spat in Lestrade's face. It was funny how that particular sense memory lingered. It couldn't have been on his cheek more than half a second before he wiped it away, but that was enough time to embed the the viscous drip of it in his skin. 

It was Friday. He had the whole weekend off. 

This was a bad idea, but he was getting his cuffs anyway, stripping down as he walked to the bedroom. No vibrator this time, he decided. Just forty minutes or so of frustration, which was what he deserved for not being satisfied with what he had and even more for not having the guts to say something to John, to possibly get exactly what he wanted. 

He set the dish with the key in it on the pillow near his head and snicked the cuffs closed. 

John might go for it. He really might. Lestrade didn't think it was entirely wishful thinking on his part. He closed his eyes, regulated his breath, and let his thoughts drift. 

"You like being hit," John would say, in that perfectly expressionless voice he used when something (usually Sherlock) shocked him. 

"Sometimes." 

"Held down." 

"Yeah. But look, you don't have to--" 

John would twist Lestrade's arm up behind him and slam him against the wall, like Lestrade had seen him do with various murderers and malefactors over the past year. Holding him there would be easy. John was strong, a lot of muscle packed tight into that little frame, and he'd say--

"I didn't know you had it in you to be this interesting, Lestrade." 

That...was not John's voice. Nor was it coming from inside Lestrade's head, unless he'd severely misjudged how unbalanced he'd let himself get over this. 

He kept his eyes closed and said, carefully, "Sherlock. Leave." 

"No. Next?" 

"What are you _doing_ here?" 

"Boring, but relevant. I need the Hazley file." 

"Kitchen table. For the love of god, just take it and go." 

Lestrade listened for retreating footsteps so hard he could almost convince himself he heard them. Almost. 

"You're not waiting for someone. You've done this to yourself. The keys should take forty minutes to an hour to melt. As I understand it, self bondage usually includes more sexual elements than this." 

Sherlock paced slowly around the bed, floorboards creaking, coat rustling. 

"You want something of this sort from John, yet you won't ask for it. Fear, or some other equally tiresome emotion, I assume." 

The sound of a drawer opening, the familiar buzz of his vibrator switched on and then quickly off. 

"You have this, but you're not using it." Sherlock paused. "Today. The harness suggests you have done so in the past." 

More footsteps, pacing, up and down the length of the bed. 

"So this is punishment then. For perceived failings. Something you've done or failed to do in relation to John, not your work. You keep this absurd fetish of yours quite effectively separate from your work most of the time." 

"It's not a fetish," Lestrade muttered. He'd run through a long list of potential emergencies before he decided the keys-frozen-in-ice gambit was safe enough. Being talked to death by Sherlock Holmes had somehow failed to cross his mind. 

"No?" Sharply. 

"I don't need it get off, it's just-- Oh, god, will you just get out? I'm thoroughly deduced, all right? You've done what you do. Take the sodding file and leave." 

"It's just what?" Sherlock's voice was closer now. 

Lestrade squeezed his eyes tighter shut and clenched his jaw. "I just enjoy it. That's all. Some people like chocolate, or romance novels, or whatever they bloody like, and I like this."

"I don't know a great many details about your early life--"

"Sherlock!" 

"I could make an educated guess regarding your relationship with your father, given your reaction to the current authority figures in your life, but--" 

"Christ, do you ever stop talking?" 

"You know how I hate it when you ask questions you already know the answer to." 

Lestrade tried his best not to smile at that. "Sherlock, what do you want? Because what I want is for you to get the hell out, and I assume there's some reason that hasn't happened yet." 

"I am...curious." He sounded curious. He sounded genuinely interested. 

Lestrade shifted on the bed. It was getting harder to pretend this wasn't actually happening. 

"What do you _want?"_

"What do _you_ want?" Sherlock said. 

"Things I can't have," Lestrade snapped, which was...oh, so stupid. Never good to give Sherlock any sort of emotional leverage, let alone something so obvious. 

There was movement by Lestrade's face, and he opened his eyes just in time to see Sherlock remove the dish with the keys. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Lestrade sat up, or tried to. He fell back with a sharp pain in both his wrists and glared at Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed his trousers, rolled up his shirt sleeves. His jacket hung from the bedpost. He laid a cool hand on Lestrade's thigh. 

"I believe safe words are customary at this point." 

"Are you mad?" 

"You would not be the first to suggest it." 

"What--" Lestrade swallowed. His cock had never gone entirely soft, even listening to Sherlock's verbal dissection of him. It was now thickening again, growing hot against his stomach. 

Sherlock eyed him, curious still, and almost wary. "Let us say, if you want me to stop, you have only to say so." 

_Stop_. It was on the tip of Lestrade's tongue, but then Sherlock's hand was on his cock, stroking evenly with a skill Lestrade wouldn't have expected. Lestrade twisted his body to the right, not quite an attempt to withdraw, if only because that was so plainly impossible. Just a manifestation of the uncertainty that filled his head. 

"Stop that," Sherlock said. "Lie still." 

"Sherlock--" 

"Don't speak." 

Lestrade obeyed. He could feel heat rising to his face. He was so hard his dick might as well have been made of steel. He looked up at Sherlock's face and saw nothing but concentration. Sherlock's eyes were focused as intently as on a corpse. Lestrade had a sudden vision of him in latex gloves, examining Lestrade's cock with his magnifying glass and had to choke back a laugh.

Sherlock paused and glanced at him. "I don't need a magnifying glass. It's actually quite sizable." 

Lestrade stared for a moment. He let his head fall back on the pillow and laughed. 

Sherlock stopped stroking his cock and started rummaging in the drawer of Lestrade's beside table. 

"Hey, I wasn't laughing at you, I just--" Sherlock held up Lestrade's battered tube of KY. "Oh. Right." 

"The next time you speak, I will leave." 

Lestrade shut his mouth with a snap and then had to put up with Sherlock's faintly smug expression. It got a lot more bearable when Sherlock squeezed a blob of lube into his palm and closed his hand around Lestrade's cock again. 

Sherlock's strokes were sure and firm, his face calm. Detached. Lestrade wasn't allowed to move, wasn't allowed to speak. It was about the tamest scenario he could've come up with, had the thought of Sherlock walking in on him ever once crossed his mind. The reality of it was turning him on harder than the filthiest of his wank fantasies.

It was a struggle to stay still. Sherlock's pace was steady, about one stroke per second, even pressure, the occasional slick slide of his thumb over the head. The sensation built with the same steadiness, higher and higher, until his toes were curling and he was biting his lip to keep quiet. 

He moaned at one especially tight, slow stroke, and his hips lifted off the bed. Sherlock stopped touching him. Lestrade opened his mouth and shut it again just as quickly. His heart was pounding as he looked up at Sherlock.

He was caught far more thoroughly than he could manage on his own. Sherlock could get up and walk out and leave him without even a frozen key to free himself. Sherlock could get him off, or tease him, or _whip_ him or-- Anything. He could do literally anything, and Lestrade was tied down with no hope of escape. Helpless. 

Sherlock was watching him like he could read his thoughts, which seemed not at all impossible. His hand went back to Lestrade's cock, and those slow, even, strokes started up again. 

It wasn't long before Lestrade was grabbing hard at the slats of the headboard in a desperate effort to keep still. The wood bit into his palms. The sheets stuck to his oversensitive skin. His breathing went from rough pants to unsteady gasps. 

There was something maddening about Sherlock's steady precision, about the way he was forcing Lestrade to take it, to be still and quiet for it when he wanted to scream and beg. He formed silent words with no air behind them, _please, please, let me--_

"I can read lips," Sherlock said. 

Lestrade groaned and turned his face away. He was aware of moving in little jerks and twitches, body no longer quite under his control. Sherlock's hand was tight and hot and slippery, and driving him ever closer to the edge. 

Finally, it was enough. He tipped over, cock spurting, Sherlock still milking him with even strokes. Lestrade fell back against the bed in relief, brain already speeding ahead to the awkwardness that was sure to follow, but-- 

Sherlock didn't stop. 

He kept his hand moving, added more lube, stroked and pulled and twisted his grip, and Lestrade snapped his eyes open to stare at him. His cock was painfully sensitive. He couldn't sort out what he was feeling, too-intense pleasure or sharp ache, but it made him twist away, or try to. 

Sherlock was on him in a second, straddling his thighs and pinning him down flat. 

"Sherlock-- It's too much, it's--" 

"That's the idea." 

He struggled, but Sherlock had all the advantage, and Lestrade couldn't budge him. Sherlock's grip on his soft cock was coaxing, teasing, tight and gentle by turns. Lestrade squirmed uselessly under him. It got him exactly nowhere. 

"Please, fuck, please--" 

Sherlock bent over him. "You are going to come again. Twice more. I don't believe you will have any ejaculate left by the third time. It's meant to be quite an intense experience." 

Lestrade stared up at him and shook his head frantically. His cock was just barely starting to stiffen again, growing more sensitive as it did. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to come like this even once more. 

"You know what you need to say to stop this." 

He did know. He didn't say it. 

He lost track of time, of everything but his breath, his heartbeat, and Sherlock's hand. Sweat built up on his skin. Drops rolled down from his hairline, and he couldn't wipe them away. He didn't know how long it took for him to come again, but he did know he was begging Sherlock for it by the end. 

It hurt. It felt amazing. It left him drained and limp and nearly incapable of speech. Sherlock just kept going. 

The room fell away, and Lestrade's consciousness descended into a haze of sensation. It did hurt now, a deep, sharp ache that felt like being turned inside out. It didn't matter. He felt as if he were floating above it, not untouched, but getting everything through a sort of fog that turned even the pain to a sort of spreading, lazy warmth. He could hear himself begging, for more, for a break, but utterly failing to tell Sherlock to stop. 

The third time was more a full body spasm that anything confined to his cock and balls. His back arched so hard he finally unseated Sherlock, who still managed to keep that torturous hand wrapped tight around him, stroking harder still as Lestrade cried out and shook and finally sobbed as this one simple touch pushed him past every barrier he'd ever known. 

There was a moment of white, and then black, and then he was lying curled on his side with a blanket over him. The handcuffs were off. 

"Sherlock?" His voice sounded thick and strange. 

"Hush. I'm calling John." 

"Wha-- No, don't--" He grabbed for the phone, but his muscles screamed, and his limbs were heavy as stone. 

Sherlock simply stood and stepped out of reach, the motion a bit jerky. He gestured with the phone, wide sweeping arcs. "Stop it. Be quiet and rest. I'll talk to him. He won't blame you for this and-- And I'd rather someone looked you over."

Lestrade was sure there was more he should do, but his body was taking Sherlock's orders to heart. He had never been so exhausted in all his life. He closed his eyes. 

*

It was dark when he opened them again. There were raised voices in the next room. John and Sherlock. He couldn't follow the argument, nor even work himself up to worry about it. He felt as if someone had wrapped him in cotton wool; the world and its problems were muffled, and he was warm and far away. 

*

When he woke for the second time, John was sitting on the bed next to him. 

"Sorry," Lestrade croaked. He coughed. "I think Sherlock was afraid he broke me. I didn't mean to--"

"Shh." John held up a glass of water and helped him drink. "Sherlock's told me... Well, a lot of things. We've been shouting at each other most of the afternoon, but that's not all that unusual for us. I'm not angry. I was at first, but I'm not now." 

Lestrade looked up at him. He was fairly certain he should be more worried than he was. About John dumping him. About how astonishingly awkward it would now surely be to work with Sherlock. About a lot of things. None of them seemed able to touch him just yet. 

"I feel odd," he said. 

John smiled at him, which was lovely. "You're a bit out of it still, but you're all right."

"I wanted it to be you." 

John stretched out on the bed behind him and pulled Lestrade back against his chest. "It will be," he said. "Don't worry about that. We'll talk about it when you're yourself again. Just rest." 

Lestrade closed his eyes obediently, but his last thought was that he'd never felt so much himself as he did at this moment.


End file.
